


Mr. Riddle

by dreamsofdramione



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Muggle, Asphyxiation, BDSM, BDSM Scene, Blow Jobs, Cunnilingus, Distant royal Hermione Granger, Dom Tom Riddle, F/M, Face-Fucking, Fingerfucking, Hermione really prefers the riding crop, Prompt: Expensive Escort, Riding Crops, Shameless Smut, Smut, Sub Hermione Granger, Vaginal Fingering, bdsm club, erotic asphyxiation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-30
Updated: 2019-11-30
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:02:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21617293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamsofdramione/pseuds/dreamsofdramione
Summary: Girls like Hermione Granger don’t belong in places like Felix Felicius.Girls like Hermione belong in posh tea houses with their ankles primly crossed and their pinkies extended as they took delicate sips of tasteless teas, feigning interest in whatever society gossip the gaggle of her peers were circulating that day.Girls like Hermione were raised to be prim and proper, to lay napkins across their laps at their meals, and make polite conversation with strangers even if it bored them to tears.Yet, despite her social status as a wellborn English girl, Hermione craved the daring edge of ruffling feathers, of uncrossing those tired ankles and spreading her legs wide in the dim light of clubs well past any semblance of a decent hour.-Written for Tomione Smut Fest 2019
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Tom Riddle
Comments: 11
Kudos: 313
Collections: Tomione Smut Fest 2019





	Mr. Riddle

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MrsRen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrsRen/gifts).



> For my dearest [@mrsren](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrsren/pseuds/mrsren)! Thank you for pushing me outside of my comfort zone and encouraging me to write this pairing. And of course, for supporting me and my crazy ideas along the way. I hope you enjoy!

Girls like Hermione Granger don’t belong in places like Felix Felicius. 

Girls like Hermione belong in posh tea houses with their ankles primly crossed and their pinkies extended as they took delicate sips of tasteless teas, feigning interest in whatever society gossip the gaggle of her peers were circulating that day.

Girls like Hermione were raised to be prim and proper, to lay napkins across their laps at their meals, and make polite conversation with strangers even if it bored them to tears. 

Yet, despite her social status as a wellborn English girl, Hermione craved the daring edge of ruffling feathers, of uncrossing those tired ankles and spreading her legs wide in the dim light of clubs well past any semblance of a decent hour. 

She’d frequented seedy clubs in the past, got her fill of the night life and all the types that dwelled within, before returning home to the stately country house and waking up in the morning to take her tea in china older than even her grandparents. 

It was all a balancing act for Hermione, the public image she had to maintain as the daughter of a distant noble, the smile she’d learned at a young age to keep plastered on her face as bulbs flashed, and the way that all contrasted with who she wanted to be in the darkest hours of the night. For under the guise of a moonlit sky, slinking along seedy streets and slipping into clubs she had no business frequenting, she held herself with poise even when she found herself on her back, tied up and whimpering in the expensive private rooms that held secrets in each and every crevice of their walls. 

During the day, she was Hermione Jean Granger, nearly twelve times removed from any claim to the throne, but at night, when the stars blanketed the inky depths of the sky, she was just Jean. One name. Four letters. Soot on her lashes and khol rimming her eyes, she let herself be someone else entirely, or maybe, as she’d begun to wonder as of late, a version of herself plucked from the very depths of her psyche. 

-

Tapping out a quick message, nails batting the screen with each swipe, Hermione arranged a car to pick her up in precisely eleven minutes. The party was dreadfully boring, stiff types telling her how _gorgeous_ she looked and how _lucky_ she was to be part of such an _amazing_ family. Truthfully, it was all rubbish. It wasn’t as though she had any say in her lineage, so praising the parts of her that were so carefully controlled by a literal team of personnel never sat well with Hermione. She was simply a face, albeit a pretty one to most, but just a face nonetheless to parade around the ridiculous titles tied to the end of her name. 

With a few quick farewells, and a well placed cough, expertly delivered with a palm to her forehead and a soft tremble in her voice, she was off, no one the wiser to her destination for the evening. 

The Felix Felicius was _the_ club for the well off of English society. With a receiving room draped in swaths of thick fabric and a petite blonde witch of a woman manning the front, anonymity was the name of the game. Being swept into a side room before any other patrons could see, _the_ book was laid on a table in front of her.

“Anyone you wish, my lady.” While her tone was quite soft, the envy curved into each word was evident, and it made Hermione bristle. If only this waif of a woman knew what it was like to hold titles that weighed so heavily on her back she thought she might crumble to the floor, she may not wish to be in her Louboutins, for each inch walked felt like a mile.

“Thank you, ‘Cissa. I’ll call you when I’m ready.”

Long, manicured nails skimmed each page of the folio. Blond, brunette, or redhead tonight, she mused. Most of the men in the spreads she’d been with before, and while some were more than simply good at their chosen profession, she had a strict one time only rule. Flipping the glossy pages, she ticked them off one by one. The redhead named Ronald had been quite a good time, but a repeat performance was out of the question, so she continued her perusal in search of something new. There was a blond she hadn’t seen before, a platinum tint to his hair she thought would offset the black uniform quite nicely. In his picture, the suit was custom fit, she could tell a quality tailored suit from anywhere, but something in his eyes made her turn the page. They were a little too light, a little too open, lacking the edge she sought for this particular occasion.

Nearing the back of the folio, Hermione shifted in her seat. While there were other clubs, and many ways beyond that to scratch her very particular itch, she wasn’t ready to venture out past the safety of the gilded walls just yet. Hoping she hadn’t exhausted her options, she flipped a few more pages before she found someone that caught her eye. 

Draped in an expensive black suit with the splash of a bright red tie split down the middle, she saw a man who looked rather...intriguing. There was a lift to his lips, and a smolder in his eyes that she could see through the glossy veneer. He practically oozed sex, all twisted smirks and deliciously dark eyes, pale skin, and mahogany tufts of perfectly coifed hair. Reaching forward to ring the antique bell, Hermione couldn’t tear her eyes away from the man’s picture. 

Tom Riddle. A fake name if she’d ever heard one, but so were all of the others, hers included. 

“You rang, Miss Jean?”

“Yes, Cissa, I think I’d like to spend the evening with Mr. Riddle if he’s available.” Tapping a nail against the profile, Hermione worried her lip. Yes, yes indeed, he would certainly do for the night. 

-

“Phoenix,” she breathed, feeling every ounce of tension melt from her shoulders as the binds bit into the thin skin of her wrist. 

“That’s right. Now say it again, doll.”

Hermione took a deep breath, letting the safe word roll right off her tongue, carried on a long exhale. “Phoenix.” 

Twisting her wrists, she felt relieved knowing the bindings would hold, they would keep her hands secured behind her back and she wouldn’t have to worry about disobeying Mr. Riddle, as he’d insisted she call him. Bare save for the six inch, red-soled heels he seemed quite fond of, Hermione stood in the middle of the room. There was something exhilarating in the knowledge that soon enough, she wouldn’t even have to think. She could switch off her overactive mind and simply feel, let Mr. Riddle tell her what to do, and just how to do it. 

Firm fingertips trailed down her spine, tracing the curve before setting on the swell of her bum. “Tell me something, Jean.” A puff of a breath ghosted over her shoulder and Hermione fought the shiver threatening to roll down her spine. “Why are you here tonight?”

There had been no pleasantries. No hellos or welcomes or exchanging of any basic facts beyond his preferred name, and she was okay with that. Some of the other men had struggled to slip into the character she sought in the past, too tender, too sweet, but that wasn't why she frequented this club. Soft caresses and whispered words were meant for suitors, and she had plenty of those. No, the club was a place she went to for an escape, to be anyone other than herself for just a few hours. 

Her answer didn’t come quick enough, and a strong palm smacked the curve of her arse. Tutting his tongue, Mr. Riddle circled her lithe form, the loud smack of his dress shoes against polished marble echoing around the room. “I asked you a question, pet. It would do well for you to answer.”

Nodding, she sucked in a breath, focusing on the lingering sting of his palm as she collected her thoughts. “To forget.”

“Mmm,” he hummed, settling a hand on each hip as he pulled her back into his still clothed chest. “And what, pray tell, are you trying to forget?”

That was the million pound question. “Everything.”

Blunt teeth scraped up the column of her neck and she nearly melted at the contact. “I can help.” Whispered against the flesh of her jaw, the words were a balm to the ache blooming to life within her, the ache of need no titled men with perfect manners and tentative hands could ever quell. 

It wouldn’t do to tell anyone in her immediate circle of influence exactly what kind of devilish desires dwelled within her heart. It wasn’t proper for a girl of her status to crave the dark things she desired. She’d learned long ago that what she wanted was a far cry from what was expected of her. Hours upon hours were devoted to nothing but research in the beginning. The very first time she’d entered the Felix Felicius, she’d been armed with more knowledge than experience, tiptoeing into an arrangement of sorts she wanted in theory but was unsure of in practice. The first time a crop had landed against her porcelain skin, though, she’d known. She’d known then that she didn’t care for the typical trysts in coat closets and whispered words of affection while being courted. She wanted something, or someone, to silence the roiling madness that consumed her every waking thought.

Control. She held it tight in her grasp while the sun sat high in the sky, gripped it through every public appearance, and clung to it when wearing her mask among the masses of society. But here, now, and with the help of a certain type of man, she didn’t care to even form a coherent thought of maintaining authority. Here she wanted nothing of the sort. Here she needed to let it slip between her fingers and bend to the will of her companion for the night. 

“I’ve read your profile, you know.” Hermione’s breath hitched at his words. “It says you favor riding crops to whips.” Blowing out a breath, she realized he meant her profile at the club rather than any glossy magazine claiming to house the ‘inside scoop.’ “It says you’ve been here quite a few times, too. Is that right, my pet?” He was standing in front of her now, his head tilted just so and a sinful smirk curling on his lips.

Sucking her lip between her teeth, she drank in the sight of him. Form fitting suit, side swept locks of near black hair, and eyes blown wide, he was a vision in black. “That’s correct.” Shifting from one foot to the other, she felt exposed under his gaze, open and vulnerable in a way simply being naked didn’t begin to cover. 

“Tell me why you haven’t lasted with any others.”

As his palms glided up her arms, goosebumps rose in their wake. “I-I.” She gulped, eyelids fluttering closed for just a moment. “I’m not looking for a long term arrangement.”

Pulling his hands back, he tapped his chin with long, lean digits. “And what if I told you I’m not a one and done type of man?”

The sting of her teeth sinking into her lip brought her back to reality. A moment passed in silence before Mr. Riddle tutted his tongue. Circling around her, the snap of his shoes against the floor filled the room, echoing off the walls before another sound broke through the silence. 

_Thwack._

Her bum burned, the sharp pain pulling a gasp from her throat as she felt the sting from his slap needle at her nerves. There was something to be said for the pleasure derived from pain, and the way her tension melted away knowing full well she held no control within the four walls of this room.

While she certainly paid a pretty pound to indulge in these fantasies, every last pence was well beyond worth the price. 

“Answer me, pet.” A firm palm pressed into the buzzing flesh on her bum. “Or should I punish you again?”

“Please.” One word. One syllable. Dripping from her lips, it felt like a praise. She _needed_ this—him—in whatever capacity he was willing to push. 

The drag of the crop against the swell of her arse made her shudder in response. “Count for me, pet.”

Guping, she dipped her chin. 

_Pop_. “One.” 

_Pop._ “T-two.” 

_Pop._ Heaving in a breath, Hermione stuttered, “Th-three.”

Expecting the delicious bite of the crop any second, she waited, rubbing her thighs together to relieve the ache pulsing to life between her legs. Instead of another smack, though, she felt the leather drag down the dip of her spine, tracing the split between her arse cheeks before sneaking between her thighs. His foot tapped against a heel, pushing her to spread wide and she was all too happy to oblige. 

“Did you like that, pet? Like the crack of the crop against that creamy flesh?”

Her eyes fluttered closed, lashes kissing her cheeks as she breathed, “Yes.”

“Uh, uh. Use your manners, pet. I only reward the most polite pets and,” slipping against the swell of her sex, she felt the crop part her swollen lips, the rough drag of the leather a sharp contrast to the smooth, shaven mound, “You’re positively aching to be rewarded, aren’t you?”

Hermione nodded again, every word in her vocabulary simply unattainable, her throat clogged with want and need and dozens of pleases. 

The featherlight pressure of the crop disappeared, only to be followed by a swift smack low on her arse— _hard_ —harder than before now that it was coated in her juices, wet and slick and biting into the already tender skin. 

“Yes. Yes, sir, Mr. Riddle. I—” Her breath hitched again when the clip of his shoes alerted her to his movement. Snapping her eyes open, she watched him approach, the crop positively glistening with evidence of her arousal as it dipped between his lips. Curling his tongue around the folded leather, he licked it clean and she nearly pressed her legs back together if just to start this little punishment all over again. 

She’d been told she was a bit of a bratty sub, but all of her past partners had liked it. Mr. Riddle though, made her want to behave. Made her want to work her hardest to be _good_ in every way if for nothing more than just to get the treat at the end of this whole affair. She guessed those tufts of dark hair would look stunning between the pale expanse of her thighs, the rigid curve of his cock would mould her cunt to its will. There was something about him that made her want to behave, even as her body screamed to rebel. 

“Are you going to be good for me, pet? Let me take care of you?”

Dipping her head again, she caught herself quickly. “Yes. Yes. I want to be good.” Blowing out a breath, she realised her mistake. “ _Sir,”_ she practically purred, gnawing on her lip again in that nervous habit her mother called ‘simply deplorable.’ Mr. Riddle must have agreed. The crop pressed into her lip, still slick with his spit and coated in the lingering scent of her essence. 

“You’ve been doing that a lot, pet. Set it free. I’ll need your lips in good condition in just a moment and I’d hate to have you fail at your very first task. You do want to succeed, don’t you? Be a good girl for me?”

“I do.”

“Drop to your knees.”

In an instant, she did just that, lowering herself onto the cold marble floor and tilting her chin up to stare at him through long, soot darkened lashes. 

“Open up, pet.” Stroking her chin, he tapped on her lips and her mouth dropped open in response. There was something so freeing about not having to think, not having to plan, or worry. There was an art to being a dominant, and Mr. Riddle seemed to have it in spades. The firm voice, the gentle touch intermingled with slight slaps and taps that guided her through it all. He was by far the most intriguing dominant she’d had yet, and despite her previous experience being the bratty submissive, she _wanted_ to be good for him, to show him she could listen and obey in a way she hadn’t wanted to before. 

The silken steel of his tip glided across her parted lips, nudging between her teeth until his full length hit the back of her throat. Squeezing her eyes shut, Hermione wrapped her lips around the base of his cock and hollowed her cheeks as she sucked. Still, save for the curl of her tongue, she let him rock in and out of her parted lips, setting the pace, controlling the pressure, using her lips to meet his own ends. Filthy praise tumbled from his lips as she sucked him off, gagging here and there from a few particularly hard thrusts.

Hermione swirled her tongue and pressed her eyes shut, tears leaking from the corners as he pounded into her mouth. But she _liked_ it—loved it, in fact—being used like a toy, her mouth fucked raw as she gagged on every inch of his cock. It wasn't proper, and the society ladies would probably keel over if they ever caught a glimpse of the golden girl on her knees, tied up, and sucking cock like her life depended on it, but she craved it—this, _him._

A sharp pain radiated through her scalp as he tugged her back, pulling his deliciously hard cock from between her swollen lips and she pouted at the loss. He'd been close, she was sure of it, and staring at his spit soaked member glistening with the evidence of his own arousal at the tip, she almost asked why he'd stopped her from completing the task before she remembered not to speak unless spoken to first. It was a basic rule, one she had broken often enough, but tonight she'd obey and that started with keeping her lips sealed shut as she blinked up at him. 

"Up." Turning towards the chaise in the far corner, he took each step with purpose, practically prowling across the marble floor. 

On shaking knees, she struggled to stand, twisting until one heel was flat on the ground before pushing herself up to follow.

"Sit, pet. I'm rather pleased with your performance and I believe you deserve a reward." 

She nearly bit her lip again as a low whimper spilled from her throat, coating her tongue, but clenched her teeth instead. It wouldn't do to upset him, not when he'd so kindly offered up her own pleasure practically on a silver platter.

Still stinging from the crop earlier, her bum landed on a soft cushion, hands still twisted behind her back, and heels clipped together to allow her thighs to clench in search of relief. Leaning down, Mr. Riddle ran a long finger around the curve of her jaw, hooking it under her chin and tilting it up to meet his eyes. "You can speak now, pet. Tell me how you'd like to be rewarded for that spectacular show."

Swallowing, Hermione tried to collect herself enough for the thought to come out smoothly. "I want," she stalled, clearing her throat. "I want you to shag me."

A dark laugh tumbled from his twisted lips, and he shook his head as he kneeled in front of her. "Not yet. You haven't been _that_ good. Maybe next time."

"I don't do—" She cut herself off, gulping around the lump lodged in her throat as his eyes narrowed and a hand shot out to grip the base of her neck. There was no pressure, even as she leaned into it, and she knew it was simply a tease, but she ached to feel the press of those fingertips digging into the flesh of her neck. He'd read her profile after all, and among the many, many kinks she'd discovered, erotic asphyxiation was certainly one of them. 

"You haven't," he corrected, leveling her with a firm gaze before tightening his fingers ever so slightly, "but you will."

She hadn't, no, but maybe— 

"Let me reward you, pet. Tell me, do you like this?" Grip tightening another notch, she felt the pleasant burn of his fingers pressing into her neck. 

Hermione nodded.

"And do you want me to do this while I get you off?"

She nodded again and he swatted at her knee. "Last warning, pet. Speak. I want to hear you."

"Yes. Yes, I'd—I'd like that."

"Good girl." His praise was like salve to a burn, causing her to preen under his affections. 

A warm palm pressed between her knees as he spread her legs apart to inch between them. Sitting up, half hunched over, she thanked all the gods his arms were long enough for one to stay planted around her throat as he leaned down between her thighs, tracing her dripping folds with the other. 

"You smell divine, pet. Is this all for me?"

"Yes." She could barely breathe as he inched closer to her sex, breath fanning over her sodden cunt before his nose grazed the swollen flesh. Nudging his nose against her clit, she felt a whoosh of air as he practically drank in her scent in a long, deep inhale. It should have felt awkward, or filthy, or just plain wrong, but instead, all she could feel was the buzz of her own arousal swelling, nearly cresting already from featherlight touches and gusts of breath. 

Hot lips descended on her swollen sex, sucking on the bundle of nerves, and lapping at her juices. 

A string of incoherent ramblings dripped from her lips as his fingers sunk into her in time with the steady flick of his tongue against her clit. Then, sensing her already building arousal reach a fevered pitch, he pressed long fingers into her throat, squeezing until the deliciously depraved feeling of lightheadedness stole all rational thought.

A touch more pressure and she'd pass out, but as his teeth, tongue, and fingers all worked in tandem to guide her down the path to her own climax, he kept her skirting the line between pleasure and pain, riding on the razor thin edge of her own dark desires. 

Whimpers, moans, and mumbled expletives tumbled from her lips as he fucked her with his fingers and sucked her clit between two teeth. Blunt teeth scraped her thrumming nub and she nearly passed out as her orgasm ripped through every fibre of her being. 

Dark spots dotted the edge of her vision as his hand left her throat, smoothing over her cheek. Gathering her in his arms, Mr. Riddle cradled her to his chest as he settled on the chaise.

Broken phrases floated around in the fog of her bliss—things like perfect, and beautiful, and good girl—all of which would have made her bristle had he been anyone else.

When she finally came to, pushing her mind through the lust induced haze of subspace and gripping reality once again, she looked up to find dark eyes watching her, studying her every move with purpose.

"Our time is up for tonight, pet. I trust you've enjoyed yourself?"

"Indeed. I have." Gaze flicking back and forth between her eyes, she watched a war wage behind his irises as she considered what he might say.

Mr. Riddle took a fortifying breath, fingers tightening on her hip. "I know you don't —"

"Next week I'll be by Tuesday. Could you work me in?"

One blink, then two, and before she realized it, a full blown grin stretched between her cheeks as he nodded.

"I think that could be arranged."

They hadn't shagged, after all. Every other dominant had shagged her senseless even after her bratty behaviour, but Mr. Riddle hadn't. That's why, she told herself, she could see him again. It wouldn't technically count until they actually shagged, right?

**Author's Note:**

> All my love to [@msmerlin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/msmerlin/pseuds/msmerlin) for encouraging this whole mess and convincing me not to delete it. Extra thanks to [@mcal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mcal/pseuds/mcal) for reading over this too and being the best cheerleader i could ever ask for. More love for [@lilibug](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilibug/pseuds/lilibug) who feeds my wildest ideas. Last but not least, thanks to the always lovely [@Frumpologist](https://archiveofourown.org/users/frumpologist/pseuds/frumpologist) for helping me decide on a safe word to use. 
> 
> This piece is unbeta'd because my muse decided to wait too long to appear so any and all mistakes are my own.
> 
> This is my very first time venturing into Tomione and I had quite a bit of fun with this.
> 
> Come find me on tumblr [@dreamsofdramione](https://dreamsofdramione.tumblr.com) or Facebook [K Writes Dramione](https://www.facebook.com/kwrites.dramione)!
> 
> As always, thank you SO much for reading. Comments & kudos **always** appreciated!


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